


Human After All

by magikspell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Domesticity, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-22 20:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikspell/pseuds/magikspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes depicting the various sweetly human characteristics of Sherlock. Though all come from the same verse, each vignette can stand on its own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sleeping - aka: sharing a bed with your flatmate who is not, in fact, a robot

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! This is my first fic for the _Sherlock_ fandom. Hope you enjoy!

The thing with Sherlock and sleep, John has discovered, is that he tends to do it not at all like a normal, functioning human being. In fact, not much about the way Sherlock functions would necessarily be classified as "normal," least of all bodily processes that work to maintain, restore, and conserve the vessel for that great big Brain of his.* 

It takes up until the weekend following their first case for John to observe Sherlock in any state warranting the label "sleep"; that was when he returned from a night at the pub with Mike Stamford to find his flatmate passed out at the sitting room table, forehead resting on his forearms and hands still poised on the laptop keyboard like he had actually _collapsed_ in the midst of an email.

To the sound of John entering the flat, Sherlock jumped as if shocked by a defibrillator. Moments later, he was back to working, only after a few seconds of crinkling his nose at the computer screen followed by approximately one minute of backspacing.

"Tea, John," Sherlock said, waving his hand in the direction of the kitchen. "Get me _tea_."

You see, Sherlock doesn't dress for bed at eleven p.m. like a _normal_ person, doesn't brush his teeth, use the toilet, have a drink of water, and head to the bedroom with a casual, "Goodnight, John." Sherlock works until his body fails him, until he gives out in a great heap of suit and cheekbones and curly hair. He works until he becomes spacey, even, until John will find him staring unblinkingly at the wall for an alarming amount of time.

After a week of this, after approximately eight non-consecutive hours of sleep over a span of six or seven days, John will come in from work at the surgery to find him in his pyjamas and dressing gown, out cold on the sofa, or will come home and not find him at all, for he has sequestered himself to his bedroom for an entire weekend of nearly uninterrupted slumber. 

Sherlock sleeps [or doesn't sleep] so damn _dramatically_ , so unnaturally most of the time, that John is genuinely surprised on the rare occasion when he manages to accomplish it healthily.

They were on a case in Lavenham when John got his first glimpse. After arriving in the village late at night, they'd managed to find a room in a tiny inn, the only one left due to travelers visiting on summer holiday, and were forced to share a twin bed that barely allowed them room to shift an inch in their sleep.

"I'll just sleep on the floor," John offered, sitting up after minutes of trying to get comfortable in the small space allotted him.

Sherlock grumbled, "Don't be ridiculous," and turned onto his side. "The floor is wooden. Your back will ache tomorrow."

"My back will ache if I sleep squished in this bed with you."

"Better to sleep on a soft mattress than a hard floor if the ultimate result is the same."

John sighed and laid back down. He shifted onto his side, becoming one misguided, sleepy nighttime move away from accidentally spooning Sherlock, and pulled the blankets up over their bodies. "It's a good job the press can't see this," he murmured, nuzzling his head into his pillow.

Sherlock chuckled in the darkness. "That really bothers you, doesn't it?"

"It's bloody inconvenient when I'm trying to find someone to shag." The last girl he'd taken out, Eleanor, was convinced, based upon gossip rags, that John was harbouring feelings for Sherlock. She'd invited him up to her flat for a drink, which was not, as John suspected, code for sex, but for relationship advice from woman to man-in-denial. 

He told this to Sherlock there in the tiny twin bed, which got a low chuckle out of him. It made John remember that sometimes the two of them could be like proper mates, giggling over stories at midnight and making it increasingly difficult to settle into sleep. 

Sherlock regaled John with the story of one of his early cases, using John's fabled denial to segue into what John would pseudo blog-title, through quiet laughter, "The Pants Bandit and the Beard," the tale of a teenaged detective, a thief who stole y-fronts from every boy in his dormitory, and the thief's accomplice, who posed as his girlfriend.

"You are never to put that on your blog," Sherlock commanded, a softness in his voice that betrayed his words.

"It would make for a nice diversion. The cases lately have been so grim."

"John."

John smiled in the darkness, shifting to make himself more comfortable. 

Sleep finally came as the clock neared one. Surprisingly, Sherlock went before John, going quiet, his breaths slowing and deepening. John listened to his friend breathe for a bit, cataloging away the sound as proof that a human being truly existed beneath the Brain.

At seven, John woke reluctantly from a fitful and uncomfortable slumber, stretching out his legs and moving around to gauge the state of his back and shoulder. All surprisingly fine, it seemed. 

Sherlock was still sleeping beside him, turned facing the centre of the bed and curled in on himself, knees bent, arms to his chest, and hands tangled under his chin. His hair was a fright, his forehead housed visible traces of gentle sleep sweat, and he breathed steadily out his slightly parted lips. John watched him fondly for a moment, as if peering at his sleeping child. Like this, with eyes closed, slightly noisy breaths, the imprint of pillow wrinkles on his cheek, and a small bit of dried drool at the very corner of his mouth, Sherlock was just like anyone else, just a man.

He'd worn pyjamas to bed and had fallen asleep at nighttime, like most folk are wont to do, had done it naturally, succumbing to the needs of his body, and had remained that way for six hours and counting. 

John watched him shift in his sleep, roll a bit onto his stomach and stretch his arms over his head until his knuckles touched the headboard. When John climbed out of bed to go wash up for the day, Sherlock smacked his mouth and sniffled, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut for a moment and then relaxing once more.

"Good morning, Sherlock," John murmured, smiling softly before tiptoeing out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnote: *[John will admit that, after living with the man for almost a month and having yet to catch him requiring extra time in the loo, he began meticulously monitoring the toilet paper roll. Conclusion: Sherlock does, in fact, defecate, and either goes about it extremely quickly, mindful of not wasting time, or takes care of it when John's out or asleep. Additional Conclusion: John should be committed for actually entertaining the idea that Sherlock is above shitting. He's a _doctor_ , for godssake!]
> 
> ^ This parenthetical bit originally came after the first paragraph (as indicated by the asterisk), but I found that it disrupted the flow. Didn't want to delete it altogether, though.


	2. eating - aka: even consulting detectives with impeccable self-control enjoy their sweets

It's true that Sherlock never eats while he's working. _Almost_ true, at least, for though he'll stuff his mouth with the occasional mince pie [as if on autopilot, really, as if he doesn't understand he's doing it and talking all the while], it's veritably impossible to get him to have a nice meal while on a case, or even a not-so-nice meal, or a meal at all, for that matter. John cannot possibly count the number of times he's enjoyed a perfectly lovely dinner with Sherlock, only to realize halfway through that Sherlock hasn't touched the paltry salad he's ordered.

"Digestion slows me down," he repeats as a mantra, time and time again, while John complains about his eating habits and suggests, as a doctor, that a modicum of attention be paid to the almighty vessel.

"It's not _healthy_ ," he says, handing Sherlock the takeaway menu and urging him to pick a meal for delivery.

"I'm perfectly fine, John."

"I'm ordering that chicken dish you like, and you're _going_ to eat it."

[He doesn't eat it, so John has it for lunch the next day.]

But even though Sherlock denies his body nourishment while on cases and often while in one of his moods [his "bored" moods, his revolver-weilding moods], immediately off-case he's ravenous. He eats like a teenager, like a lanky kid just home from rugby practice, stuffing more food in his mouth before he's had a chance to swallow the previous bite.

He likes sandwiches, John's noticed, coming home after work to spy Sherlock, just off the case, scarfing down two ham and cheese sandwiches while leafing through a science journal. He likes pizza, too, with extra toppings [but not too much mozzarella], pasta dishes, and Mrs Hudson's roast dinner with Yorkshire puddings. He talks with his mouth full, sometimes, like a mannerless child, and on more than one occasion John's had to tell him to slow down, that if he ate regular, filling meals like his means allowed, he wouldn't become such an awful glutton the moment a case is solved.

Sherlock usually made a face at that, but slowed his eating.

Once the initial binge is over, and granted there's more than twelve hours between cases, Sherlock's eating pattern usually regulates, becoming almost normal. He'll eat the middle bits of two pieces of toast for breakfast on the second or third day, will have leftover Chinese mid-afternoon, and will perhaps indulge in dinner with John at a restaurant at seven.

Sherlock's not much of a snacker, John's observed, when it comes to crisps or chocolate bars or even biscuits, to a certain degree, but he does so love sweet pies. Cherry, lemon meringue, banoffee, or apple, he'll often have seconds when Mrs Hudson brings one 'round and John'll occasionally catch him walking from the kitchen, licking at his thumb, having snatched a bit with his fingers on impulse. 

"Keep your bloody paws out of the cherry crumble, Sherlock," John scolds, looking up from his newspaper. "I've yet to have some, and I'd like it free of your germy spit."

"John. It's _pie_."

"I don't care. Use a dish and spoon."

Sherlock sticks his nose in the air and flounces over to the sofa. "I don't have _germs_ , you know." He pauses for a moment. "Well. Not harmful ones, at least. I haven't been ill in ages." He checks his fingers. "I have no open wounds, no infections…" He continues talking for such a very long time.

At moments like this, the only reason John restrains himself from throttling his flatmate is because the argument at hand is such a _normal_ one to have. It's not over the body parts in the refrigerator, not over proper conduct while interviewing a terrified child, and not over fresh bullet holes in the wall. It's over an annoying friend picking at a shared cherry crumble with hands he sometimes neglects to wash.

John wouldn't choose a normal existence, and he wouldn't choose a "normal" Sherlock, not normal like people think normal should be. But he quite likes fussing with the man over trivial matters, in spite of himself. He enjoys knowing that Sherlock isn't _actually_ without regular, harmless human vice [and a sweet tooth], and that his impeccable control over his body really isn't so bloody impeccable after all.


	3. laughing hysterically - aka: that one time john fell down the stairs

Sherlock has a slow, deep laugh that rumbles out from the far recesses of his belly. It's a restrained laugh, one that can be stopped at a moment's notice, one that doesn't too terribly alter his facial expression beyond a wry smile or the occasional quick grin that blooms across his face, lighting it up like a spark.

That particular laugh happens when his flatmate's said something amusing ["'Welcome to London'" or "Are you wearing pants?"], or when he comes across a particularly clever murderer, or when he's sat on the couch, reading the comments on John's blog and planning a rude response. Sometimes, it can even be a pitying laugh, one of, _Oh, the silly little people with their silly little brains_. 

In essence, Sherlock's usual laugh is a laugh of many trades, one, solid tone to represent an array of intent.

Rarely does he _laugh_ -laugh, John observes, and if you were to ask him even six months after moving to Baker Street, he would tell you that Sherlock _never_ does, that he never loses control, snorts, or experiences the aching abdominal muscles that come with a particularly good, hearty laugh. He would tell you that he _almost always_ does the rumbly thing, maybe sometimes allows a breathy smile or the very rare proper [and brief] giggle, but that's all; Sherlock's not a side-splitting-laughter kind of guy.

A year after moving to Baker Street, however, John would tell you differently.

They were returning from dinner one night after a case, both of them full and warm and so dreadfully _happy_. Sherlock took the stairs up to their flat two at a time, just because he could, because he's Sherlock, coat billowing out behind him like a cape and causing him to appear superhuman, like a crusader stalking through the night. 

Slower, smaller, and certainly less agile, John followed him, trying to match his pace or at least desiring to not be caught at the bottom of the stairs, still, when Sherlock, all litheness, lines and angles, reached the top. 

John made to skip steps, to keep up, to neglect step number seven, the creaky one, in favor of eight, then ten. 

But then Sherlock said something, made a comment or asked a question, something John didn't catch but that still threw him off, made him look up and away from the staircase, away from step number seven.

His foot didn't land quite properly on the step, the very, very tip of his shoe catching the very, very edge of step number eight, and his slightly slippery sole released the stair altogether when John made an attempt to place his weight on it. 

He could have caught himself, should have caught himself, really, but he was distracted, and it was all _so bloody fast_ , and in the time it took for him to yelp, John was sliding down a portion of the staircase on the slick knees of his dress trousers, and his chin was bouncing down three full steps.

" _Augh_ ," he groaned, not so much in pain as in humiliation. His knuckles were white around the bit of railing he'd grabbed to stop his tumble, and his jaw, jarred by the three, solid _thunk_ s, felt out of sorts.

John waited a moment, expecting a concerned Sherlock to appear, sweeping him into a standing position and checking him for harm. He expected an, "Are you all right?", perhaps an, "Are you injured?" 

He got none of it.

After straightening his shoulders, John slowly stood, rolling his neck from side to side and grumbling. "'S'okay," he said sarcastically, taking hold of the railing once more and beginning a visibly slower ascent up the stairs. "I'm all right."

It was then that he heard it: a single bursting sound, like a rush of air pushed forcibly through lips that were determined to stay closed. He paused on the second stair from the top and looked up at Sherlock, whose back was turned and whose shoulders were shaking uncontrollably.

"My _God_ , John!" He gasped, before turning around and baring his quickly reddening face and squinting eyes. "Are you positively _determined_ to require a cane?" The "cane" sounded strained, slightly broken, breathy, as Sherlock clearly attempted to hold in another burst of laughter-air from his lungs. 

"John," he said, then repeated it, as if asking for assistance, unable to compose himself on his own.

He bit at his bottom lip, painfully hard, it seemed, until the skin turned white where it was clamped by his teeth. And just then, just like that, John watched Sherlock's face as it slowly unraveled, watched his brow furrow, his cheeks draw up, his eyes squeeze shut, and finally, with the release of his bottom lip, heard the most infectious, intense bout of laughter he'd heard in months.

It was a gorgeous sound, truly lovely, happy and loud and then quiet, silent, before a heaving gasp turned it loud again. It was achingly, sweetly human. Sherlock clutched his abdomen with a gloved hand, as if the laugh pained him, as if it worked unaccustomed muscles, and doubled over until he was howling at his knees.

"You think it's funny, do you?" John deadpanned, trying to keep a straight face. "You don't crack a _smile_ at _Black Adder_ and yet my pain nearly breaks you."

" _John_ ," Sherlock gasped again, for the third time, as if he couldn't believe what had happened to him. He pressed on his knees to help straighten his upper body and fell back against the wall by the flat's door. "You are a tremendous friend," he said, once he could breathe. "As brave as a lion, as gentle as a newly born lamb...as agile as a sodding _polar bear_." He collapsed with laughter, sliding down the wall until he was seated with his knees drawn up to his chest.

"We can't all be superheroes," John said, cracking a smile. He kicked at Sherlock's shoes and shook his head, starting to chuckle. "Right git."

" _Please_ , John," Sherlock murmured, out of breath from having laughed so hard. "Do it again."

"What on earth is that _noise_?" came the worried voice of Mrs Hudson, who was standing at the foot of the stairs in her nightie. "Is someone injured? Shall I ring an ambulance?"

"Just John's pride, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock called, looking up at his flatmate with a gasping grin.

John broke into unabashed, uncontrollable laughter, then, feeling it wash over him like a wave. He leaned over against the staircase railing and gently tapped his forehead against the wood. 

"You _arse_ ," he said to Sherlock, with nothing but fondness in his voice.


	4. showering - aka: the flatmate who monopolizes the bathroom

John's dorm-mate at university, the only other man, disregarding his fellow soldiers, with whom he's shared a proper residence, was a bit like a young Labrador Retriever. He drooled all over his pillows, made a mess of himself outdoors, and returned to the room at nightfall smelling like sweaty socks and whatever he'd eaten for dinner. His bathing habits were appalling, the bloke's hygienic practices consisting of a five-minute trip to the showers three times a week; in a word, he _smelled_.

Sherlock, John discovered quite quickly after moving to Baker Street, is nothing like this. He takes regular, _dramatic_ showers, long showers, showers that leave John beating on the door to the bathroom ten minutes before he's to leave for the surgery telling him to _hurry up, for goddsake! I've got to **shave**!_ "

On the rare occasion that Sherlock complies, shutting off the water and exiting the bathroom, he makes sure to leave great puddles of hot water on the floor and steam on the mirror and shoves his way past John wrapped in a ridiculous, plush towel and pouting, as if offended.

"What can you _possibly_ be doing in there for so long?" John asks his retreating form, watching him drip the short path to his bedroom.

It occurs to John at first that Sherlock may be masturbating. God knows he's nothing more than a ball of pent-up tension to begin with. Long, daily attempts at release, John supposes, are only logical. They're _good_ for him, in fact--healthy. John does it himself a few times a week. 

But after making the mistake of allowing his mind to wander, allowing himself to imagine what Sherlock could actually think about while having a wank [Crime scenes? Nice, grisly murders? Certainly not _sex_!], he begins to doubt his initial conclusion. _Does_ Sherlock masturbate? Wouldn't he think it below him, somehow, as if it's just another urge to bury in favor of the Work? John thinks of asking him one day, coming right out with it, but finds that he can't think of a casual way to ask his flatmate about wanking without sounding entirely bonkers, and asking it as a "doctor," he knows, would just be suspiciously random. So he doesn't ask. Instead, he continues to suffer through Sherlock's impossibly long showers and hopes that whatever he's doing beneath the spray is working out well for him.

But one evening, with nearly a year at 221b behind him, John somehow finds himself in the bathroom while Sherlock is showering. He's due to meet a date at seven, and determined to actually be able to brush his teeth, pounds on the door twice and yells for Sherlock to "get out of the _fucking_ bathroom, you spoiled _child_."

The water cuts off immediately, and John is suddenly proud of himself. So the answer is _swearing_ at the git, is it? Insulting him?

"The door is unlocked, John," Sherlock grumbles, sounding properly waterlogged. "Just don't _talk_." The sound of the shower spray begins again at once.

John's first reaction is to tell Sherlock in no uncertain terms that he shall not prepare for his date at the sink while his flatmate showers, naked, three feet away. But after peering at his watch [6:27 p.m.], he decides to _sod it_ , sod it all, he doesn't care. He's goes in.

The bathroom is like a sauna, clouds of steam floating around, nearly choking John, who swipes at the mirror with a flannel and grimaces. In the mirror, he can see the shower behind him, can see the wet mop of the top of Sherlock's head over the opaque shower curtain.

"Having fun in there?" He decides to ask a moment later through a mouthful of toothpaste foam. "Enjoying a proper drowning?"

"I told you not to talk."

John quirks his brows and spits in the sink.

When he's finished washing up, he can't help but ask, once he's determined that no movement, none at all, is coming from the shower: "So you just _stand_ in there, then? For nearly an hour?"

Sherlock violently jerks back the shower curtain enough to stick his sopping head through. John watches rivulets of water slide from his hair, which is flat and long when straight, and traces them until they land in the dips in Sherlock's prominent collarbones. "I'm _showering_ , John," he says, annoyed.

John licks his lips. "Yes, but, you see, when most people shower, they usually have a wash, dawdle for a bit, and then eventually _get out_ after a reasonable amount of time."

Sherlock reaches an arm through the space in the shower curtain and pushes his wet hair back out of his eyes. He then swipes across his lashes with his forearm, and John thinks he looks like a lanky teenager just out of the swimming pool.

"I'm clearing my head," he says, grumbling. "Do _most people_ do that?"

John blinks at him, slowly, and purses his lips. "Sometimes."

With a look of, _okay, then!_ , Sherlock pulls his head back in the shower and closes the curtain with a _whoosh_.

About to make his leave, John takes hold of the doorknob, but pauses before giving it a turn. "You know, there _are_ other places you can do that. Places that don't require the monopolization of a quite vital room in this flat. That you share."

The curtain opens again, more this time [exposing most of Sherlock's torso], as if he's completely unconcerned with covering himself. He stares John down for a moment, eyes narrowing, and huffs.

John's expecting a childish argument, a complaint, perhaps even an insult, but what he receives is ultimately a scowl and:

"I'm just _relaxing_ , all right?" Sherlock says, as if resigning, absently scratching his chest, just above his right nipple. "The hot water is comforting."

 _Relaxing_. Comforting. John watches Sherlock close the curtain once more and hears a _thump_ , as if he's knocked over the shampoo. 

_You could've just said that, you know, stupid git_ , John thinks at him, shaking his head.

"See you later, Sherlock," he says, leaving the bathroom.

...

"You might like to visit a spa," John tells him one morning, once Sherlock enters the sitting room, all showered and dressed and properly curly. "Have a massage. Enjoy the sauna for a bit."

Sherlock merely looks at him, peering 'round as if expecting John to have set out tea and toast for him.

"It's fine to like that sort of thing." 

_It is, Sherlock. Honestly._

"Too bad it's a complete waste of time," Sherlock responds quickly, as if distracted. Seeing nothing, no tea, no toast, he turns and makes his way back to the kitchen.

John sighs, picking up his mug of coffee and taking a long, slow drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More coming soon! Thank you so much for reading!


	5. swearing - aka: stubbed toes will make anyone yell, "fuck!"

While the typical, everyday Sherlock can be annoying enough, all arrogance and icy stares and great, heaving sighs, John has found that manic Sherlock, dramatic Sherlock, Sherlock itching for a case, is no less than a thousand times worse. He _flounces_ when he's worked up, moves around the flat with his dressing gown billowing, still dressed in pyjamas at four in the afternoon and wielding his violin bow like a mad man. If he's not complaining about nicotine addiction, compulsively refreshing his webpage, or pausing in front of the telly and insulting John for actually _enjoying_ such "insufferable drivel," he's rooting around in the fridge or cupboards for something, _anything_ , on which he can conduct an experiment. 

"Sherlock, will you please settle down?" John asks one Saturday, having a seat on the sofa with his laptop and a cup of tea. It's meant to be a _relaxing_ Saturday, one in which John can laze around and enjoy himself, but surprise, Sherlock's decided to turn into a raving lunatic in a wrong-side-out T-shirt and wrinkled pyjama bottoms.

"I need a case. It's been _four days_ , John." Sherlock walks to the window and peers out, mouth set in a straight line of dissatisfaction. "No stolen artifacts, no threatening letters, no grisly murders. Why's there not been a murder?"

"Even potential murderers enjoy a nice, quiet Saturday every now and again," John says, before adding quietly, "If they don't have complete nutters for flatmates."

Sherlock _hmmms_ and reaches to the table for his violin. "I'd love a nice decapitation," he muses, slowly drawing the bow across the strings. "A torturing could be fun."

"Funny you should say _torturing_."

"London's due a serial," Sherlock continues, ignoring his flatmate. "And we've not had a _really_ interesting one in a while." 

With his violin, he suddenly launches into a screeching, frustrated cacophony, turning away from the window and moving swiftly toward the centre of the sitting room, as if intending to perform for John the soundtrack of the seventh circle of hell.

"Sherlock, _honestly_ ," John grumbles, peering around the vicinity for his iPod and headphones. "You've _got_ to--"

The horrible, discordant, bleeding _noise_ stops, suddenly, as if a plug has been pulled.

John looks over at Sherlock, meaning to thank him, and freezes.

Sherlock is crouched down, his violin and bow by him on the floor, resting his forehead on his knees and grasping with one hand the smallest two toes on his left foot.

And just like that, he yells, " _Fuck_!" 

John blinks twice, very slowly, and closes his laptop.

In as long as he's known Sherlock, he's never heard him swear. Not _really_. Yes, he occasionally uses "hell" and "damn" when frustrated, and John once heard Sherlock call him an "arse" under his breath, but "fuck?" Never "fuck." Never "fuck" or "shit," never rude slang terms for human anatomy, excretions, or sexual acts. He's much too posh for that, too erudite. In fact, though he never says anything, Sherlock regularly scowls at even John's inclination toward more creative expressions when angered or injured.

"You just said 'fuck,'" John comments, strangely flabbergasted, setting his laptop on the coffee table and placing his hands on his knees.

Sherlock doesn't respond. Instead, he stands and, wincing, bends his leg at the knee and pulls his foot up to hold it with both hands. He rocks a bit, unsteady, before finally gaining his balance. "Oh, it's _awful_ ," he says emphatically, hopping twice. " _God_."

"What've you done, then?"

"The table leg. My _toes_ , John."

The table, John notices, has shifted several inches and is now slightly crooked. Stubbed toes. Serves him right, the infuriating thing. John sighs and calls him over.

Dramatically [as if he'd do it in any other way], Sherlock practically limps over to the sofa and collapses into the empty space to John's right. Without so much as a request, a question, or a "please," he drops his left foot in John's lap with the force of a kick, missing John's groin by mere millimetres.

"Which ones?" John asks, grasping the base of Sherlock's long, narrow foot and having a look.

"Fourth and fifth."

Sherlock's toes are thin and straight, paler than even the skin of his face and surprisingly smooth and unblemished. They're free of childhood's marks, never scraped whilst riding a bicycle with bare feet, not scarred from particularly awful summer sandal blisters. They've a few gentle calluses and the nail of his big toe has been unevenly cut, but they're fine toes, in general, neither stumpy nor crooked. Only a few dark hairs grow on the knuckles of each one, and even they are somehow elegant, not too long, not distracting.

John gently examines Sherlock's smallest toes, using his knowledge of distal, middle, and proximal phalanxes to feel for breaks or acute sprains. He grabs Sherlock's other leg by the calf and heaves it up into his lap, using his uninjured toes to check for comparison. 

"I didn't think you said 'fuck,'" he says with a chuckle, gently pressing on Sherlock's baby toe, which is beginning to swell.

"Oh, _do_ shut up, John," Sherlock responds, plucking absently at the fabric of his inside-out t-shirt. "You should read my texts to Mycroft. He's quite happily told to fuck off at least once a week." 

John snorts at that and looks over at his friend for a moment, watching the little smile on his lips that appears for only a few seconds. 

Once the smile is gone, John shifts his attention back to his patient's foot and to the other injured toe. He checks the bones more thoroughly, gently feeling them with his fingers before running the edge of his fingernail across the skin of the pad. "Any numbness? Tingling?"

"No." 

John claps his other hand down on Sherlock's ankle and squeezes affectionately. "You're all right, mate. Just a bit of a stub. Minor sprain."

Sherlock tightens his mouth, as if wholly dissatisfied with the news that he's not grievously injured. 

"Fancy a cuppa?" John asks, slowly moving Sherlock's feet from his lap and standing. "Paracetamol?"

"Both." Sherlock takes advantage of the vacated cushion and stretches out.

When John returns a few minutes later, Sherlock sits up and accepts the tea and two pills. "What a dreadful day," he says with a sigh, staring down into his mug. 

John smirks. "What do you say we watch Monty Python?"

"Is that meant to make me feel better?"

"Come on." While Sherlock takes his pills, John walks over to his collection of DVDs and selects two. " _Life of Brian_ or _The Holy Grail_?"

"Neither."

" _Life of Brian_ , it is." John prepares the DVD for viewing and returns to the sofa, where he settles in and props his socked feet on the coffee table.

"Is this the horrible film with the coconuts?" Sherlock asks, lying back down and resting his feet on John's lap once more.

"No."

"So it's the horrible film meant to be a clever religious satire."

"'I shall…welease…Woger.'"

Sherlock fusses, but ultimately rolls to his side to face the telly.

John gives his uninjured foot a squeeze.


	6. spots - aka: sherlock the red-nosed consulting detective

From the time he was fourteen years old and up until he was nearly twenty, John had a terrible acne problem. 

It wasn't that his face was pizza-like, literally covered in red spots throughout the entirety of his teenage years; no, he had moments of a clearer complexion, particularly when he was around sixteen, had discovered girls, and had taken great measures to coat his face nightly in spot cream. It was just that he _never_ had conventionally nice skin, _always_ having at least three or four spots, usually on the apples of his cheeks, even when he thought he'd managed to get his acne under control. It had bothered him tremendously, resulting in a self-consciousness he simply didn't _want_ , more anxiety added to his already present anxieties about his older sister [already at risk for alcoholism], his parents [miserably married and holding out for the sake of propriety], and his plans for the future [university, becoming a doctor] which seemed pre-thwarted by a money issue [the money issue was that there was no money].

John had never been more relieved than he was when his hormones settled down in his early twenties, clearing up his skin. Acne had been such a burden, a true problem for him, and at twenty, it seemed like a horrible physical handicap he'd finally been able to shake. 

As he aged, though, as he studied medicine and got to know more of the world, he learned to be at peace with the acne he'd had, with old photographs of himself at fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen, had even learned to see past the faint scars on his cheeks that were visible in bright sunlight. Acne was just something that…happened. People had spots. He'd had spots. It was a part of being human.

He _still_ got a spot on occasion, even in his late thirties, usually at his jawline or just below the corner of his mouth, often when he had been up for days, chasing his mad flatmate around London and had missed one too many chances at washing up. Sherlock never commented, but John always saw his eyes settle on it while they were talking, and he wondered what sorts of deductions were going on in that Brain of his. 

He imagined that, unlike himself, Sherlock had been one of the rare youth who had somehow managed flawless skin throughout his teenage years. It would only be appropriate, wouldn't it, Sherlock seemingly unaffected by his body, by what it did without his permission, understanding that it was inevitably growing up and changing beneath his impeccable dress and curls and irritated expression but managing to hide all evidence from his face. Keeping it distant. Not something to be dealt with in the bathroom mirror every evening before bed.

John knew nearly nothing about Sherlock's youth, had never even seen a photograph other than the one he kept in his bedroom of him and Mycroft when they were around ten and seventeen. Sherlock was but a tiny thing in that photo, all hair and school uniform, and Mycroft was, well, _not_ a tiny thing at all [which was why Sherlock displayed it so proudly, John thought]. 

But though he'd never seen him at sixteen, hadn't seen him in the so-called "awkward years," and though he knew very well that eight out of ten teenagers suffer from acne, he still clung to the idea that Sherlock was one of the clear-skinned two, one of the lucky ones. His adult skin was quite nice, at least, even with the lack of sleep, lack of sufficient hydration, past addictions, and unhealthy dietary practices. The faint scars that could be seen in the sunlight were no doubt from injury, from run-ins with criminals, from being punched and pistol-whipped. Battle scars.

The fact was, Sherlock had clear skin. He had _nice_ skin. John hadn't seen so much as razor-burn or an ingrown beard hair. And this was precisely what made the week of November the fifteenth so much fun. 

John had just arrived home after a weekend at a medical conference when he saw It [capitalized]. He was tired from the early train ride and somewhat hungover from the previous evening's final-night-in-Bristol pub crawl with Stamford. This, he thought to himself, explained his lack of impropriety upon seeing Sherlock, who was dressed as primly, as impeccably as always, but who was also sporting a large, bright red spot on the top of his nose.

He knew it was unfair of him and more than a little discourteous, but he couldn't keep himself from _staring_ at It as Sherlock spoke to him, asking whether he'd picked up the milk [as if he'd only stepped out for a trip to Tesco and hadn't left London for two and a half days].

"What?" John asked, moving his eyes up to meet Sherlock's, trying his best to ignore the spot. He unconsciously scratched at the top of his own nose but froze the moment he realized what he was doing.

"The milk, John."

"The milk?" John's eyes jumped downward; he fought to keep them up.

Sherlock paused what he was doing, fiddling with a bunsen burner, and narrowed his eyes. "What?" He asked, placing his hands on his slim waist.

John rubbed his hand across his face and shook his head. "Nothing. It's just…" [and here's where the impropriety came in] He chuckled a little, unable to help himself, and trained his eyes on Sherlock's nose.

Sherlock, understanding immediately, abruptly turned his head away and grumbled, "Shut up."

"I'm sorry," John said, genuinely sorry, knowing he'd be annoyed if Sherlock pointed out his own occasional spots. "I get them, too. It's fine."

With his head still turned away, now suddenly so very interested in whatever blue substance was housed in a beaker, Sherlock sighed a great sigh, a true _shut the fuck up_ sigh.

John smiled at the back of his head and went to go and unpack.

…

That evening, in the midst of a particularly dreadful performance on _The X Factor_ , John made his way to the refrigerator for the leftover casserole that was nestled snugly between a bag of rabbit feet and a package of mouldy cheese.

After shutting the door, he looked down the short hallway to the left of the fridge and saw Sherlock crossing into the bathroom from his bedroom, carrying a small cup and wearing a pair of surgical gloves.

He usually didn't pry when Sherlock was conducting an experiment or when he was going about his odd little business, but that time, John couldn't help but set down the casserole and follow Sherlock to the bathroom.

He leaned around the door, sticking his head just over the threshold and asking warily, "What are you doing?"

Sherlock looked at John and scowled. Not gracing his flatmate with a reply, he set down the cup of a foul, watery paste and adjusted his position in front of the bathroom mirror. With a single, gloved finger, he scooped up some of the mixture and examined the consistency.

"Again, I ask," John said, voice tired, "What are you doing?"

Sherlock sniffed at the substance once, twice, and then moved his finger toward the spot on his nose.

"Because it _appears_ that you're gearing up to place something on your face that you're not even chancing to touch with your bare hands." John stepped forward and snatched up the cup as Sherlock began to apply the substance to his spot.

It was strong, odorous, and burned his nostrils when he gave it a sniff. " _God_." John made a face. "What's this?"

"Benzoyl peroxide. Sodium bicarbonate. Three per cent acetic acid solution."

John tightened his mouth and watched Sherlock spread the cream across the surface of his nose. "That's going to dry the absolute bloody _hell_ out of your nose," he said, placing the cup back on the sink.

Sherlock made a face in the mirror, an _oh, the young child understands_ face. "Precisely."

"You know, you can buy spot cream like anyone else."

"I don't have _spots_ , John."

John sighed and turned to leave the bathroom. "Of course you don't."

…

It turned out that Sherlock's homemade spot cream actually made his spot even _redder_ , irritating the surrounding skin to the point of giving him a Rudolph-like appearance. He discovered this the next morning, apparently, as did John, who woke to the sound of a loud groan worthy of a porn film, which he heard all the way up in his bedroom.

" _Sher_ …lock," John said upon seeing his friend, voice breaking midway through his name. He bit at his bottom lip to keep from laughing. Sherlock was standing in the middle of the bathroom, clad only in a pair of grey boxer-briefs, hair wild from a session of post-case sleeping like the dead and nose red to the point of being shiny. His chest and stomach, which were nicely toned and yet reassuringly imperfect, rose and fell rapidly with his panicked breaths.

"I can't possibly leave the flat," Sherlock said suddenly, as if deciding.

John placed his hand over the bottom half of his face to hide his amusement. He coughed quickly and shook his head in apology.

"Look at It, John." Sherlock's slightly embarrassed frustration from the night before was gone, replaced with what seemed to be reluctant resignation. He kept watch on his reflection in the mirror. "It's _ghastly_."

John removed his hand and placed it on his hip, taking a step closer to Sherlock and peering over his shoulder and into the mirror. "It's not that…bad," he tried, narrowing his eyes.

Sherlock scowled. 

"I've a text from Lestrade," he said, after staring at himself in the mirror for an impossibly long period of time. "He's bringing files on the recent blugeonings in Brixton."

"When?" John asked, taking a step back and leaning against the doorframe.

"This morning." Sherlock straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and turned away from the mirror. "I'm not at home," he said, before stalking off to his bedroom.

"If you're interested, I'm sure I can find you a pair of those funny glasses with the nose and moustache attached," John called, unable to stop himself.

He was met with the sound of a slammed door.

…

Greg Lestrade arrived at half-nine, carrying a stack of files in four individual folders.

John greeted him cheerfully and took the files.

"This never happened," Lestrade reminded, looking right in John's eyes. "God help me if the chief superintendent found out I've let him see these."

John assured him that he was sworn to secrecy and placed the files on the coffee table.

"Is he around, then?" Lestrade peered around the flat, noting the absence of one consulting detective.

John shook his head. "He's…buying milk," he said, wincing at his hesitation. 

Lestrade gave him a funny look and shrugged. "Well. Have him text me with whatever he comes up with?"

"Yes. Sure." John shook his hand, thanked him, and said goodbye.

He went to make toast once Lestrade began to descend the stairs, and was halfway across the sitting room when he suddenly heard him coming back.

"Okay, what's he _really_ doing?" Lestrade asked, leaning just slightly across the threshold and looking particularly curious. It was the look he'd given John many times when they'd met for drinks at the pub, the look that employed him to spill the beans on what it's _really_ like to live with Sherlock Holmes.

John froze in place. To tell or not to tell? 

Lestrade gave him a _come on, mate!_ smile.

He told.

"He's got a _what_?" Lestrade whispered in response to John's quiet explanation, grinning wildly. "Any chance you can text me a photo?"

"He'd kill me," John said, shaking his head. "Sorry."

"Well, I'm sure he's got a nice disguise, though, doesn't he?" Lestrade asked, chuckling conspiratorially. "A false nose?"

"The _glasses_ ," both men said at once, breaking into low, shoulder-shaking laughter like a pair of schoolboys.

…

Sherlock allowed himself to leave his bedroom when it was nearing eleven. He flounced across the sitting room and collapsed onto the sofa, wrapping himself tightly in his blue dressing gown and sighing miserably.

"Give it a day or two," John said, trying to be comforting. He walked over to the sofa and placed a steadying hand on Sherlock's hip as he bent to snatch the newspaper up off of the floor. "The redness will fade in no time, Sherlock."

Sherlock shifted dramatically and grumbled.

"We could get you some makeup, you know, if you wanted to go to Brixton." John paused, knowing he wasn't helping. "Or we can go tonight, when your nose isn't quite so…glowy."

" _Glowy_ , John?" Sherlock asked, exasperated, launching up straight on the couch and shooting him a look of utter loathing.

John's shoulders shook, the beginning of a laughing fit, he could sense it. "That's not what I… I didn't mean _glowy_ , like the…"

"Like the _what_?"

"Forget I said anything." John moved away from the sofa and went to sit in his chair, stifling his laughter all the while.

Sherlock was seething, now, rising up on his knees. "Like. The. What."

John shook out his paper. "Noooo. Not going there."

Sherlock stood from the sofa and began walking toward John, stepping onto and off of the coffee table on his way. "Tell me."

If looks could kill, as they say.

"The _reindeer_ , Sherlock. All right? You look like Rudolph the bloody fucking Reindeer."

And with that, Sherlock took off back to his bedroom, dressing gown billowing out behind him.

…

As an attempt at an apology, John traveled to Boots and purchased Sherlock some redness-reducing spot cream, an expensive facial moisturizer, and the latest issue of a science magazine he'd once spied him reading. 

"For my nephew," John told the cashier, a pretty brunette. "He's twelve."

…

He delivered the products to Sherlock in a shopping bag and gave a resigned sigh.

Sherlock snatched up the bag and peered inside but refused to comment. [Later, John would stand in the bathroom door again, arms crossed, and watch Sherlock roll his eyes as he applied the moisturizer and spot cream. He would squeeze him on the shoulder afterward and ask, "That wasn't so bad, now, was it?"]

"Why'm I receiving texts from Lestrade enquiring as to whether I need _glasses_?" Sherlock asked, setting the bag beside him on the sofa. 

He seemed genuinely perplexed, so John smiled and let him be. He ruffled his flatmate's hair quickly, affectionately, feeling the soft curls on his palm, and went to make tea.

"I'll have some, John," Sherlock said, without John having asked. "Thank you."

John turned for a moment and saw Sherlock looking at him, not unhappily. The corner of his mouth was quirked upward, even if his eyebrows were furrowed and there was a crinkle above the bridge of his nose.

"Tea it is," John said, turning back toward the kitchen.


End file.
